


The Collision

by LizzieCarlton



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, First Kiss, First Meetings, M/M, Sexual Tension, Teenlock, Young Mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 17:19:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzieCarlton/pseuds/LizzieCarlton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft spills a cup of coffee over a man who looks like something out of a wet dream. Young Mystrade with petulant teenage Sherlock, written for the Mark Gatiss Birthday Auction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Collision

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZeQueerVeda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZeQueerVeda/gifts).



> Written for the Mark Gatiss Birthday Auction.
> 
> Many, many thanks to fernsfairie for her bid. This fanfiction is dedicated to her. 
> 
> All credit to her for the idea. She requested a coffee shop AU, Mycroft spilling his drink on Greg and a kiss in the rain. 
> 
> With all my love, hugs and a tin of virtual cookies. I hope you enjoy.

Following his brother across the cafe, Mycroft was too absorbed in how to get the boy back into Eton to pay close attention to where he was going. Sherlock lost his place at the establishment at least once a year and, much as Mycroft hated to admit it, money was running low. Removing the cheap polystyrene lid, Mycroft took a sip of coffee and closed his eyes in order to block out his brother’s whining.

The collision that followed caught him off guard and his paper cup flew into the air as he stumbled over a pair of size ten feet in scruffy brown brogues.

Mycroft winced as coffee showered over him. Oblivious to the scalding heat, it was the sight of the man he had walked into which distressed him. The stranger was gorgeous, with tanned skin and dark, tousled hair. His tight white shirt had turned see through where Mycroft’s coffee had splashed him.

‘Ouch,’ the man muttered, pulling the fabric away from his chest. He looked up at Mycroft with a frown which disappeared when their eyes met.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Mycroft said hurriedly, stumbling over his words as he pulled a handkerchief from his suit pocket. ‘Please,’ he pressed the handkerchief to the man chest, dabbing at the damp fabric. ‘Allow me.’

‘That’s alright,’ the man said slowly. His hand rested on top of Mycroft’s for a split second, before tightening and pushing him away. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

Mycroft looked down at the floor, his cheeks burning at the sight of the mess. A harassed looking waitress had rushed over and was hurriedly wielding a mop between their feet.

‘Your shirt,’ Mycroft mumbled, trying to ignore the piercing eyes of the other customers. ‘It’s ruined.’

The man shrugged. ‘It’s fine.’

‘It only cost him twenty pounds,’ a bored voice interrupted. ‘Have you finished blushing? Can we leave now?’

Sherlock glowered up at them from his side, arms folded. His eyes darted between them with petulant impatience.

Taking a deep breath of coffee scented air, Mycroft closed his eyes and attempted to calm himself. By the time he had opened them, the man had moved on, winding his way through the crowded tables which filled the cafe.

‘Wait,’ Mycroft called after him, attracting the attention of the surrounding customers and a loud snort from Sherlock. The handsome stranger turned around and raised his eyebrows, scanning Mycroft from head to foot. ‘My flat is just around the corner. Let me get you a change of shirt.’

There was a slightly stunned silence which followed, during which Mycroft was fairly sure he turned beetroot red. It appeared he had accidentally propositioned a stranger in public. An old couple at a nearby table were shaking their heads and tutting. Sherlock, meanwhile, had walked out of the door, leaving it wide open so that the rain and wind were driven mercilessly in.

The man looked him up and down again with significantly more interest. He shrugged and nodded, breaking out into a broad grin. Leaving his mug on an empty table he moved back over to Mycroft. ‘Greg Lestrade,’ he introduced himself, holding out his hand.

‘Mycroft,’ Mycroft mumbled, his heart skipping a beat as they shook hands. ‘Let’s go.’

They spent the short walk back to Mycroft’s flat in absolute silence. Mycroft could sense the other man’s eyes on him and a peculiar lurching sensation had begun in his chest. Opening his umbrella against the falling rain, Mycroft held it over their heads and Greg moved closer, allowing their arms to brush together.

Sherlock was waiting for them at them outside the flat. He stood with his arms crossed, reclining against the faded wallpaper of the hallway with a disgusted expression on his face. ‘You brought him home?’ he asked incredulously, scowling at Greg as Mycroft unlocked the door.

As the door swung open the teenager pushed past them and, dumping his bags unceremoniously on the floor, disappeared into his bedroom.

‘Sorry about him,’ Mycroft began nervously, closing the door behind them. He slipped his shoes off and aligned them neatly. When he looked up he was greeted with the sight of Greg’s arse, clad in tight blue denim, as the man bent over to untie his shoelaces. Resisting the urge to grab it with both hands, he slipped around him, and headed into the kitchen. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Yeah, go on then,’ Greg said, poking his head into the room. He rubbed his hands together uncomfortably and looked Mycroft up and down again, his gaze lingering on his legs.

Mycroft tapped his fingers against the work surface, waiting for the kettle to boil.

‘You’re not going to throw it at me, are you?’ the man teased, entering the room and leaning back against the work surface. He smiled.

‘Ah,’ Mycroft blushed. He took the lid of the teapot, and set two china teacups on a tray, reassured by the familiarity of the motions.  ‘Not this time. Let me find you a change of shirt.’

He hadn’t expected Lestrade to follow him into the bedroom. But the man slipped in behind him, looking around the room with interest. Mycroft wished he hadn’t folded his pyjamas on top of his pillow; a childhood habit. Opening the wardrobe door, he watched in the mirror within as Greg sat down on his bed, legs open.

‘Got anything big?’ the man asked.

Mycroft stopped shifting through shirts and turned around, his eyes widening. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Shirts,’ Greg explained, with a smirk. He fingered the top button of his own before undoing it, his finger resting in the gap. ‘I reckon I’m a size bigger than you.’

‘Yes,’ Mycroft looked at him assessingly, enjoying the opportunity to eye up the man’s muscles. He turned back to his wardrobe and withdrew a shirt from his chubbier period. It was a dark burgundy colour, and he had never once worn it. In truth, he just wanted to see what Lestrade would look like in it. ‘This one, perhaps?’

Greg shrugged and stood up, taking the shirt from him. Their fingers brushed as he did so, and a wave of heat flooded through Mycroft’s body. ‘Thanks’

The man smiled and set the shirt down on the bed, before returning to his shirt buttons. Vaguely aware that this was the moment for him to leave, Mycroft remained frozen on the spot. Greg watched him as his hands travelled further down his shirt, revealing more and more skin as they went. The man had a firm, well defined chest, dusted with dark hair. As he pulled his shirt off his shoulders, his dark nipples stood out against tanned skin. Trailing down his flat, muscular stomach, a thin line of hair disappeared beneath his waistband.

Half naked, the man sat on Mycroft’s bed, his shirt disregarded on the sheets. He smiled invitingly and tilted his head to one side, tongue flicking out to lick his lips.

Mycroft remained where he was, heart thumping in his chest, unable to move. Desire flooding through him, he didn’t dare approach the man for fear he had misread the signs. Instead he cleared his throat and turned his head away, preying Greg hadn’t noticed his erection. ‘I’ll put it in the washing machine,’ he said, holding out one hand.

Greg handed him the shirt, and Mycroft wondered if he had imagined the fleeting disappointment crossing the man’s face.

‘Thank you,’ Mycroft mumbled, watching him stand up. At such close proximity he could smell the man’s aftershave, an intoxicating blend of leather and spices. Wanting nothing more than to push him back down onto the sheets, he turned around and left the room.

Dressed in the deep red shirt, sipping a cup of chocolate chai tea, Greg was the living image of Mycroft’s every fantasy. The man had sat down on top of the kitchen table with his legs wide apart, revealing a sizeable bulge at his crotch, which Mycroft was currently trying very hard not to look at.

Taking a mouthful of his own tea, Mycroft nervously brushed a speck of dust from the marble countertop. Everything in the room was fastidiously polished and shone brightly in the light. In the corner the washing machine hummed as Greg’s shirt span around and around in the hot, soapy water.

‘Thanks for the tea,’ Greg said, cheerfully. He set his empty cup down on the work surface, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Might have to buy some of that.’

‘Take it,’ Mycroft said, handing him the box.

Greg shook his head and waved him away. ‘You don’t have to keep apologising.’

‘Sorry,’ Mycroft said. He took Greg’s empty cup and placed it in the sink, turning on the taps. ‘I just want to make it up to you.’

‘ _Do_ you?’ Greg asked cheekily. Jumping to his feet, he came to stand behind Mycroft, close enough for him to feel the man’s body heat.

Staring at the bubbles filling the sink, Mycroft stayed very still, overcome by the sensation of Gregory’s hands sneaking onto his hips. The man’s mouth brushed the back of his ear and he exhaled slowly, attempting to calm himself.

At that moment, Sherlock bedroom door swung open, and the teenager loped out with a bored expression on his face. At the sight of them he made a noise of disgust. ‘Have you not finished yet?’ he asked, walking into the room.

Greg pulled away, fidgeting with his cuffs.

‘The sink is overflowing,’ Sherlock pointed out, withdrawing from the fridge with a can of diet coke. He cracked it open and turned on his heel, disappearing from the room.

Mycroft turned off the taps and looked down at the soapy water flooding onto the floor.

‘I should go,’ Greg said, uncertainly. He waited where he stood for a few awkward seconds as if waiting for an answer.  

Nodding hopelessly, Mycroft led him to the front door. This time he didn’t watch as Greg pulled on his shoes, too embarrassed to even look at the man. He held the door open for him and watched apologetically as Greg walked out and down the hallway. Giving Mycroft a half wave over his shoulder, he walked away without looking back.

‘Fuck,’ Mycroft swore quietly as he closed the door. He sunk back upon it and closed his eyes, disgusted with his own cowardice. The sound of the washing machine broke his stupor and he stood up straight in the dawning realisation that he had no idea how to give the man back his shirt. Gregory hadn’t even left a number.

Pulling on his shoes, Mycroft ignored the voice in his head telling him to forget it; to stuff the shirt in the back of his wardrobe and never think about the man again. Not even bothering to tie his shoelaces, he pulled open the door and stumbled out. Racing down the stairs, he shot outside into the road. At first glance the street appeared deserted. Setting off at a trot, Mycroft broke out into a run, turning left and keeping on until he reached the corner. As he splashed through the icy puddles lining the pavement, the beating of his footsteps echoed around the street. Rain was still falling and the sky was a dark grey.

Rounding the corner, he stopped dead at the sight of Greg waiting at the nearest bus stop. The man looked over at him and cocked his head curiously. He raised an eyebrow as Mycroft stumbled up to him, panting.

‘Your number,’ Mycroft managed through his gasps. ‘You didn’t leave a number... your shirt...’ he gestured wildly with his hands in an attempt to express the seriousness of the situation. ‘I’ll need to give it back.’

Greg grinned and withdrew a notebook from his jeans. Scrawling a number in faded blue biro, he tore out the page and folded it roughly in two. Stepping closer, he slipped it into Mycroft’s top pocket.

‘Excuses, excuses,’ he teased.

‘Your shirt,’ Mycroft repeated in absolute embarrassment. He shifted his feet nervously against the tarmac, looking down at his undone shoelaces as Greg stepped forwards, leaving them pressed together.

‘My shirt might be done by now,’ the man muttered against Mycroft’s lips. There was a slight scratch of stubble as their cheeks brushed and the man’s hands slid over the backs of his thighs.

‘It probably is,’ Mycroft agreed breathlessly, knowing perfectly well that it wasn’t. His fingers had somehow become intimately entangled in Greg’s belt loops.

‘So,’ Greg’s hands moved experimentally higher landing just beneath the curve of his arse. ‘Should I come back and get it?’

‘Yes,’ Mycroft murmured, oblivious to the pouring rain. He brushed his lips over the other man’s and moaned in relief as Greg kissed him deeply. The man’s tongue pushed its way demandingly into his mouth, and Mycroft sank into his body, letting it hold his weight as they kissed. ‘Yes.’ He repeated when they finally broke apart, eyeing each other greedily. ‘Come and get it.’

**Author's Note:**

> I write drabbles on Tumblr! Feel free to send me a prompt at [**Drabbling in Mystrade**](http://drabblinginmystrade.tumblr.com)


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